


Flaws and Fawns

by ImogenPortchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arguing, Driving, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenPortchester/pseuds/ImogenPortchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To let off steam, Dean drives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flaws and Fawns

Sam’s been on his nerves for the past few days—close quarters and all—but now he’s pissed, reached his boiling point a few hours ago. He has no real reason to be, just can’t look at Sam’s face without wanting to slap it.

Now he’s driving. It’s sometime after 11pm and it’s pitch black on the hilly back road of northern Virginia. He’s not quite sure where he is but he’s certain that he can find his way back to the main road when he’s calmed down enough to turn around.

Driving usually calms him down.

Heaven knows (and he knows that Heaven _actually_ does in fact know) that Dean would do anything for his brother. Literally. But that doesn’t mean he has to like him one-hundred percent of the time.

Sam’s not an easy guy to live with; he’s got plenty of flaws which make Dean’s blood boil.

#1: He’s messy. Leaves dirty laundry laying all over the place (“At least stuff it back into your duffel! Jesus, Sam!”), tries to toss a beer cap into the waste basket, misses, and then never picks it up. (Stepping on one is what finally sent Dean over the edge tonight.)

#2: He’s gassy.

#3: He has seasonal allergies and refuses to blow his nose (“I don’t like the way it _feels_.”), which leads to

#4: He snores occasionally. Dean doesn’t know why, but snoring pushes his buttons like nothing else. If getting punched in the balls before bed every night meant he wouldn’t have to listen to Sam snore, he’d gladly take that deal.

Dean knows that he’s got flaws of his own that Sam could list (happily) for days, but that doesn’t make Dean’s annoyance any less valid.

So he blows off steam by driving. Exploring the winding country roads makes the sound of Sam’s snoring fade from his ears. And anyway, it’s healthier than whiskey.

He slows down to 15 miles per hour and rolls down the window so he can lean his head out. The trees are dense here, but the road is wide enough that he can see the stars without a problem.

The air on his warm skin feels like a gentle kiss on the cheek.

That thought puts Sam’s face back into the front of his mind and Dean leans back into the car, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

#5: Sam always has to be right. Yesterday Dean mistakenly said that women have the XY chromosome and Sam couldn’t shut the fuck up about how wrong he was. Because perfect Sam has never made a simple mistake.

He rests his elbow on the edge of the door, once again picking up speed, and does that wave motion with his hand, riding the air. They should go to the coast. Either one, they’re both the same picture in Dean’s mind: the beach. East or west, he won’t recognize the difference once his toes are in the sand.

#6; Sam can be a bit of a snob. Be it art, wine, or “contemporary pop”, Sam knows his shit and refuses to let Dean forget it.

#7: He always has to have the last word… Okay, so does Dean, but he can admit that! Two people who cannot rest without having the last word living in each other’s pockets leads to enough arguments on its own. It doesn’t help that Sam almost became a lawyer.

Dean sucks in a deep breath, holds it until his chest begins to hurt, and slowly lets it out through his nose. He concentrates on the trees disappearing from the corner of his eyes.

He turns on his high beams, something he should’ve done several miles ago. The rural darkness always leaves him awestruck. It seeps into his soul and weighs on him, comfortably, like a hand on the shoulder.

Sam’s hands. Dean involuntarily licks his bottom lip. Sam’s hands are gorgeous. And when they get too rough and worn he _moisturizes_ them, something Dean makes fun of him for doing, but secretly praises when those hands peel apart his ass cheeks and those slender fingers find their way inside of him.

Nothing of the sort has happened in over two weeks and Dean is tense because of it. Well, maybe not _because_ of it. Actually, if he’s being completely honest with himself, his recent high stress level is probably the cause of the lack of heat between the sheets… But it certainly isn’t helping. Lately those slender hands have been gesturing angrily while:

#8: Nagging—

—Dean about bullshit that doesn’t matter.

“I asked for ‘low sodium’, Dean. This is ‘creamed’ corn. Do you know how much sodium is in this? That’s the only thing I asked you to pick up for me. Seriously, Dean?”

Fuck off.

Dean had more than half a mind to open that fucking creamed corn while Sam was asleep and dump it into his duffel.

His knuckles are white around the wheel. Creamed corn is goddamed delicious, who the hell does Sam think he—

A deer jumps out into the road, not 200 feet from the Impala and Dean slams on the breaks, the car fishtailing. His eyes are scrunched shut, his entire body braced for impact.

Inertia thrusts him forward as the car jolts to a stop, but the seatbelt pulls him back into the padded leather bench. Breathing frantically, he opens his eyes and makes eye contact with a small, young doe.

It’s just standing there, right in front of the car in the middle of the one lane road. Dean logically knows that the deer can’t see him sitting inside the vehicle—the headlights too bright—but in this moment it doesn’t matter; he feels a connection anyway.

He almost killed her. He wasn’t going that fast but… she’s so small.

It seems like an eternity, but must only be a few heartbeats, before she wags her white tail once, blinks, then slowly trots forward, disappearing into the trees as if nothing had happened.

Dean lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Now seems like a fine time to turn around.

Facing the direction from which he came, Dean looks into the trees for the deer but she is nowhere in sight.

Deer are Sam’s favorite animal. Always have been, ever since he was a kid.

Once, John took them to a metropark and they stayed until it closed at dusk. In the distance by the tree line Sammy spotted eleven (“Eleven, Dean! There were eleven!”) deer, and the three of them sat quietly for over half an hour watching them graze.

To this day Sam still turns away when he sees a dead one on the side of the road.

“I hate seeing them like that… snapped neck… eyes open…”

It’s one of the few things Dean has never picked on him about.

He slowly pulls away, newly alert, but sated in a way he hasn’t been for a few days, the tension having completely vacated his body.

The cool wind ruffles his short hair and he imagines Sam’s fingers digging into his hips as he drives back to their motel room.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The give and take between them](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540094) by [kestra_troi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kestra_troi/pseuds/kestra_troi)




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